


The Tyranny of Gods and Men

by theghostsofeurope (baronvonehren)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-10-09
Updated: 2011-10-08
Packaged: 2017-10-24 10:28:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/262455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baronvonehren/pseuds/theghostsofeurope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft and Sherlock play a game of chess.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tyranny of Gods and Men

A game of chess with pieces that are themselves. Carving out chunks of themselves, sometimes drawing and quartering whole limbs. Sacrificing bits of themselves so that they might penetrate deeper, so that they may win the war of attrition. Mycroft has a marked advantage, an upper hand, and Sherlock can do nothing but play dirty. A clever sort of politic, drugs and misconduct and generally distasteful things. Things that force his brother’s hand.

Oh, and that doubled-edged sword: _‘what would mummy think?’_ —Indeed, what would mummy think if she knew her eldest son was a closet homosexual and her youngest dodged psychiatrists and mocked sociopathic tendency, self-medicating his obvious mental disorder with cocaine and pure adrenaline.

Sherlock had developed the lovely tendency of not blinking when he stares, such as a cat would, maybe a mannerism picked up after studying the tendencies of serial killers. He blinked when he was a child, Mycroft notes, and he most certainly displayed at least a little compassion. Curiosity is not cruelty, per say. Sherlock was of the opinion that Holmes-es could disregard common ethics all-together, they did not apply to such beings; they were creatures in which the terms of Gods and Men were synonymous.

They are not so different, really. They are master manipulators, pulling strings and wearing masks—gods or actors, the line is fine. The chief difference between the two is that Sherlock uses his masks only when he has to and Mycroft wears them always. Now he wears a mask, but he is quite sure Sherlock sees straight through it—he always has, it was uncanny when they would lock eyes as children.

The violin lies propped against his shoulder, his fingers run along its neck and pecking at its strings as hungry birds. He hasn’t spoken a word since Mycroft arrived; they simply sit—Mycroft with a mock smile on his face—playing imaginary chess.

Their game is interrupted by Sherlock’s latest Rook. His war chariot, his bowman, Dr. Watson is Sherlock’s fortress, his major piece, and Mycroft knew it. Perhaps Rook was  _too_  lowly a term for his brother’s greatest endearment, Queen is more fitting. The silence is broken with the exchange, a subtlety that only they knew and was left unspoken yet understood.

Sherlock would be racing through London soon enough, and Dr. Watson would most certainly follow.  _What sort of cruel tyrant you must be_ , he thinks, and for a moment something flickers on Sherlock’s face as if he can understand and he lifts his bow, silencing whatever words he could have spoken with cacophony.

Mycroft smiles as he makes his way downstairs, umbrella tapping each step deliberately. He takes it upon himself to keep his brother in check, to reign in his possible tyranny, the tyranny of Gods and Men.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm really sorry that I write such obscenely short chapters but that's just how I roll. I really /do/ intend to continue this, just like I intend to finish everything I start!


End file.
